


walking around in daytime

by Roccolinde



Series: where you used to be [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (several days late), F/M, Modern AU, Table Sex Tuesday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:28:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24203656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roccolinde/pseuds/Roccolinde
Summary: Jaime and Brienne attend a party, and ignore the looming realities of their investigation into the missing Stark girl.A prequel to 'falling in at night' for Table Sex Tuesday
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Series: where you used to be [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1746907
Comments: 63
Kudos: 106





	1. Brienne I

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I wrote [falling in at night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23393641/chapters/56060401) for Mutual Pining March and thought if I'd revisit the universe, it would be a followup of their reunion. Turns out it was a prequel, riffing off the purple wedding and (to a lesser extent) the gifting of Oathkeeper scenes. 
> 
> Also, look, I tried to explain what Brienne wears in this but neither one of these bastards would just describe the clothes, because they had more pressing issues. I wanted to play with the outfit she wears to the wedding, that women's clothing without being explicitly feminine or flashy for the setting, considered a straight tux option but wanted the skirt for table sex shagnanigans, and so settled on a riff of [this outfit](https://66.media.tumblr.com/3a550b57b3bac55afcf20df32e8008a3/537d02622d187e56-55/s500x750/0dbcb3703b7b084789a4cb14ed78f3b62b9627af.jpg), where the trousers are replaced by a long skirt (midnight blue, not that it comes up) and the shirt and cufflinks are borrowed from Jaime's wardrobe. Thank me later. The image might be better than the fic. 
> 
> Title of the fic and the series continues to come from the Edna St Vincent Millay quote: “Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you like hell.”

The penthouse suite of Red Keep Towers was exactly what Brienne would have pictured, if she had pictured anything at all; ostentatious and impersonal, and teeming with glittering people and false smiles. It was not at all like the lived-in elegance of Evenfall Hall, no centuries of history to ground you. She kept her posture straight, her shoulders squared; she did not choose this world, but it was not entirely foreign either and she would not shy away. 

“It was so good of you to join my brother here this evening, Ms Tarth.”

Brienne glanced across the room to where Jaime was in conversation with a guest and just as quickly looked away, turning to face the source of the voice. She’d never met Cersei Lannister before, but even without her comments Brienne would have recognised her easily enough—the golden hair and green eyes were obvious, though it was a twist of her lips that cemented the resemblance. But where there was often mirth in Jaime’s expression, there was only a cold blankness in his sister. 

“I was happy to be invited,” she said, stiff and polite. Not that Jaime had intended to come, until he’d heard Baelish was meant to attend; one telephone call and a hasty RSVP mid-afternoon and… well, they were here now. “He always speaks well of you.”

“Hmm,” Cersei said. “I’m afraid he doesn’t speak of you much at all.”

The words were sweet as sugar, delivered with a smile, but Brienne felt the barb beneath as Cersei had no doubt intended. _She won’t like you_ , Jaime had said, earlier that afternoon. _She doesn’t like anyone without the Lannister name and a bank account to match. Try not to let it bother you, she can sniff blood in the water._

Brienne inclined her head slightly. “Police work does not make great dinner conversation, I suppose.”

“No, certainly not.” Cersei’s nose wrinkled in disgust, before her expression smoothed once more. “Still, it was kind of you to join your partner—”

“We’re not partners,” Brienne said, too hurriedly. “I’ve been fortunate enough to work with him, but we are based in different precincts. He is…” her fingers worried the cuff of her shirt, “very good at his job.”

“Hmm,” Cersei said, and even her shrug was elegant. “I suppose those medals for bravery must be worth something, though I’m not convinced they aren’t just meant to flatter my father.”

Brienne bristled, then breathed deeply. “I wouldn’t know about that, but I do know I would not be here this evening without him. He has saved my life, more than once.”

“Strange, he’s never mentioned that.” Cersei arched a brow. “I can’t imagine there are many police officers in such dire circumstances regularly.”

“No. Most of us will never have to draw our guns,” Brienne said, placid now, not adding that she had a reputation for taking on the impossible cases—it had been punishment, at first, Tarly’s response to the audacity of a woman in his station, but it had stuck because she was _good_. She knew she was good. She wouldn’t be _here_ if she wasn’t good, wouldn’t be facing….

Silence fell for a moment, and Brienne found herself looking towards Jaime once more; he’d finished his conversation, only to be drawn into another, two flutes of champagne in his hand. Cersei smiled again, laying one perfectly manicured hand on Brienne’s forearm.

“Your outfit is very… unusual, Ms Tarth.”

Brienne flicked her eyes down, taking in Jaime’s pleated white shirt opened at the neck, the thin scarf, the long silk skirt beneath. They’d only had a few hours notice, but it was _correct_ , if not particularly fashionable. 

Cersei sighed, all careful theatrics, and gave a commiserating smile. “My brother… he doesn’t understand how these things work, for women. I imagine he sprung this on you so late you had no chance of finding something more appropriate. Or seek a manicure.”

Brienne kept her nails short, neat, buffed. Practical. Unremarkable, except for now. 

“As you say.”

“Really, he’s so careless,” Cersei continued. “Tell me, were you his second choice, or his third? There are so many women who would be happy to accompany him, but he’s always so determined to spite our father. Showing up with a police officer from a family of no consequence....”

“I wouldn’t know.”

Cersei tapped one long finger against the moue of her blood red lips. Across the room, Jaime turned from his conversation long enough to smile at Brienne, his eyes widening when he saw who stood beside her. Brienne shook her head slightly; _It’s fine_ , she hoped to convey, _keep talking._

“Those are interesting cufflinks.”

Brienne glanced down at the twin swords that fastened her sleeves, her skin burning at the memory of Jaime securing them, his thumbs sweeping against the pulse at her wrists, lifting them up to press a kiss against each. 

“Your brother lent them to me,” she managed to say, certain her face betrayed all the things her voice did not. 

Cersei gave a sharp laugh. “Oh dear,” she said. “You’re in _love_ with him. How droll. Does he know, do you think?”

No. They didn’t, couldn’t—

Her gaze sought out Jaime again, all charm and poise in his tux as he spoke with the cousin of a friend of their suspect in the Stark case. Baelish had been a no-show, but Jaime had kept working, had felt the ticking of time as keenly as she did. 

“A bit of friendly advice,” Cersei said, leaning in with a conspiratorial gleam. “He’s fickle, Jaime. You might be a novelty for a while, and you’re certainly useful in his spiting plans, but when it comes down to it… Jaime always chooses his family. You might have him now, but you can’t keep him.”

Brienne couldn’t. She knew that. She’d known it that afternoon when she’d answered her phone, when Jaime had told her they would have a chance to speak with Baelish outside the station, when they’d fallen into bed and he’d buried himself deep inside with her legs around his hips and she’d said it as he went to pull away, _Jaime, Jaime, not yet_. She knew it, and yet to hear it…

“Excuse me,” she said. “It was lovely to meet you.”


	2. Jaime I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am an idiot and managed to post the first chapter accidentally. So have the first three, and the fourth chapter should be with you shortly. Or never, if I conclude it's not needed. Either/or.

Jaime had been off the Stark case for six weeks, the commissioner citing budget concerns and statistics (and very carefully skirting that it wasn’t good _PR_ , this missing Stark girl, now that the her self-destructive behaviour after witnessing her father’s murder has made the news), but it allowed them to justify being here tonight. Justify crossing paths with Baelish, rumoured to have been seen with Sansa Stark weeks after the last confirmed sighting and far from King’s Landing. Justify the manner of investigation for the sake of answers. Very little else would drag him into the metaphorical lion’s den; as they approached the doors—for of course they were double doors, ornately carved dark wood that screamed opulence as if daring you to forget that you stood where kings and queens had once lived—he felt Brienne’s steps slow but not falter, and he turned to look at her.

Her bottom lip was between her teeth, worrying away the light pink gloss she’d donned, her skin paler than usual, highlighting the smattering of freckles on her neck, down her chest, framed by her— _his_ —shirt; Jaime stroked his thumb over her knuckles once, twice, before releasing her hand to knock at the door. 

They were escorted inside, and then quickly separated as they were drawn into separate conversations; he resented the distance, wanted to keep her with him if only for the night, hated the idle chatter he was expected to have with people he cared little for. Brienne was across the room, completely oblivious as some young woman laid a hand on her arm—dear gods, was that Margaery Tyrell? He hadn’t realised she was old enough to be off apron strings, nevermind flirt with _his_ date, though he couldn’t fault her tastes.

Margaery was gone by the time he’d managed to make it back to Brienne’s side, managed to place his hand on the small of her back, managed to lean in close to whisper against her ear and see the gooseflesh appear as he did. 

“Have you seen Baelish?”

Brienne shook her head. “Not yet. There’s still time.”

The irony of that statement was not lost on him. 

His free hand caught her wrist, thumb pressing gently against his cufflink, and she flushed. This close he could see the jut of her nipples against the silk shirt, could remember them beneath his tongue only that afternoon before he’d fastened the small pearl buttons and hid them from view; he leaned closer, closer enough to catch the hint of perfume she’d placed behind her ear, along her clavicle, some musky men’s scent that drove him mad.

“Dance with me then.”

“Jaime...”

He knew her objections before she could voice them—she didn’t want the attention, didn’t want to waste the time, didn’t want—

“Please?”

If this was the only chance they would have… She inclined her head slightly, a concession; he led her towards the dancing, only to be intercepted by a distant Lannister relation. _It’s fine_ , her gaze told him as she slipped from his grasp on her waist, _I’ll keep looking for Baelish. It’s why we’re here._

And so it went, for several hours: stolen moments between conversations with near strangers and business associates of his father; glimpses across the room, greedily drinking her in until he could rejoin her; glancing touches of muscles beneath silk before they were pulled apart by duty once more. 

He was deep in conversation with a distant relation to one of their suspects when he glanced back to where Brienne stood, seeking her familiar frame out as he had all night, and nearly did a physical double-take—he’d seen Cersei only in glimpses since their arrival, a glittering force of nature as she flitted from guest to guest, good manners wielded like a weapon. He had avoided her, hadn’t wanted to give her inevitable comments more weight, but she’d sought Brienne out herself, of course she had. They stood side by side, watching him; the contrast between the two women would have been comical if he didn’t know his sister so well, if he couldn’t well imagine the poisoned words she would drip in Brienne’s ear. His first instinct was to return, intervene, physically place himself between Brienne and whatever threatened her, for the brief time they had left, but she shook her head slightly and so he stayed in place, though his attention remained divided. 

When Brienne walked away a few moments later, chin high and face neutral, he excused himself and moved to meet her, their paths crossing near a low table laden with food; his hand caught her bicep, warm beneath the fabric of his shirt, and he leaned in to speak quietly. 

“What did she say to you?” 

“Nothing,” Brienne lied, smile tight. “You were right—she doesn’t like me. Her mistake was thinking I’d care.”

Fuck his sister, and fuck this party. He squeezed her arm, gently, and shook his head. 

“Baelish isn’t coming,” he said, the only useful thing he’d learnt that night. “We’re getting out of here.”


	3. Brienne II

_You can’t keep him._ The words followed Brienne out of the penthouse apartment, into the elevator, down to the valet. _You can’t keep him, you can’t keep him_ , a strange counter to Jaime’s hand in hers, his thumb stroking over her knuckles that way he always did, some part of him always in perpetual motion, bright and sharp and quick. _You can’t keep him_. Into the car, sleek and unobtrusive, gunmetal grey and powerful beneath the hood. Through the nicest parts of King’s Landing, _you can’t keep him_ , so far from the city she, they, saw every day. Followed her into the garage and out of the car, repeating in time to the click of her heels against the concrete as they headed inside. Jaime was lost in his own thoughts, his mouth in an unhappy line, the corners of his eyes tight and his shoulders tense; Brienne sidled a little closer, took his hand in hers once more. _You can’t keep him._

In comparison to Cersei’s place, and possibly _only_ in comparison to Cersei’s place, Jaime’s apartment was modest—yes, the small kitchen was a sleek and modern black, with built-in cabinet lighting that lit the otherwise dark room and an enormous kitchen island, and the view of the city centre from the floor to ceiling windows was worth several million dragons by itself, but the brightly coloured blanket over the back of his couch showed signs of pilling, there was a stack of papers on the small dining table, and the artwork on the walls felt _personal_. It felt like Jaime.

Beside her, Jaime sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it onto the mahogany bench near the door. Stepped out of his oxfords, then unknotted his bowtie, unfastened his sleeves, slipping his cufflinks into a pocket before rolling them up, slowly stripping himself of every shining, glittering veneer. Brienne looked down to slip out of her own shoes, intending to get them both a drink as she had many times before, but he gave a sharp exhale and she looked at him again.

_You’re in love with him, but you can’t keep him._

One of her shoes was still on as she launched herself across the small distance, as their bodies collided in a tangle of limbs and evening wear, as he bit at her mouth hungrily. As she pushed him against the wall, narrowly missing the bench. As he grabbed the scarf around her neck, wrapped it around his fists, used it to pull her in closer. It was still on when he pushed off the wall and propelled them the few steps towards the kitchen, up against the island, still kissing, still biting, and then he lifted her onto it and she laughed in surprise.

“I’m going to miss that sound,” he growled, fingers tangling in her scarf again, and before she could think— _I’ll miss this_ and _you can’t keep him_ and _we tried, Jaime_ —his mouth was back against hers, seeking, demanding, and she leaned into it, spread her legs so he was close, so close, to the warm, wet heat of her cunt, close enough to feel the ghost of what was to come. Wrapped her arms around his shoulders, snagged the undone bowtie between her fingers and tossed it away. 

“Show me,” she panted. 

He tugged at the scarf once, short and sharp, and then let it go. Kissed along her throat, behind her ear, torturously strong in their gentleness. Unbuttoned his shirt, fingers trailing over the skin exposed at every button, throat and clavicle and sternum and abdomen, until she writhed against the cool marble beneath her, seeking any sort of pressure, any sort of relief. His reprimanding tsk, exhaled against her cheek, sent a shock through her and she wrapped her legs around him and tugged him close, surprised when he winced.

“Shoe,” he explained, reaching behind him well enough to slip the errant heel from her foot and send it flying across the room. “Where were we?”

His hands found her ankles, glided up her legs, pushing the silk skirt up, up, taking his time now, and all Brienne could do was tighten her hold of his waist, raise herself in the air as his heated palms reached her hips, until she was sitting on his kitchen island with her skirt around her waist and his shirt hanging from her shoulders and Jaime still mostly dressed and yet entirely indecent with his dark eyes and tanned skin in contrast to the stark white of his shirt, his previously neat hair in disarray from their kisses.

“Brienne,” he breathed, just her name, just the slight hint of a true smile in the corner of his eyes, and then he was kissing her once more, sweet, familiar kisses, slowly moving down her body as his hands teased her thighs, and _you can’t keep him_ —

“No,” she said, digging her fingers into his shoulders, pulling him upright, pulling him closer. “Inside me, now.”

He gave her a wicked smile, the promise curling around her insides, then one hand moved up, pushed aside her underwear—serviceable cotton, and he’s so far gone that he doesn’t even remark on it—and his fingers plunged inside her so smoothly she shot up from the island, gave some sort of half-wild howl that made him laugh as he buried his face against her neck, but it didn’t stop his fingers pumping and curling, didn’t stop his thumb from finding her clit, didn’t stop the building pressure that had her groaning and thrusting and demanding more, more, _that’s not what I meant, you bastard_ , and then his free hand fumbled at the placket of his trousers and she had just enough mind to help him and he was out, and then he was inside her, fingers replaced with his cock so easily that all she could do was shriek, raise a hand to her mouth to muffle the noise against her palm, push against him so he was even deeper, and they moved quickly, a tandem motion daring the other to come first, hard and fast and so far from punishing, until she forgot everything but the feel of it. 

After, when sweat had dampened his shirt and the silk of her skirt was almost certainly ruined and they were clinging to each other, still on that kitchen island, he opened his mouth to speak, and she knew what he would say if he did.

“Don’t,” she demanded, holding him tighter than ever. “Not tonight.” 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All I wanted was some goddamn shower sex, and I didn't get it. That pretty much sums up this chapter. Maybe I'll rewrite the whole thing one day into a version that I don't hate.

She’d fallen asleep in his shirt. It was the first thing he noticed when he woke up—the scarf was long gone, and the skirt abandoned somewhere as they’d made their way towards his bedroom, but the shirt was still on, twisted around her torso and gaping to reveal the shadow of her breast in the early morning light. Jaime lifted his eyes up, mapping all the hard lines and curves of her body, smiling at her slightly parted lips and tousled hair before remembering—

He slipped from the bed, forcing back a chuckle when she made an all-too-familiar whining protest in her sleep. Let her stay awhile longer. Padding into the kitchen, he began to brew coffee. Took out two mugs and waited for the steady fall of her feet before pouring the coffee. Looked up as she approached the island, still in his shirt, watched as she slid into one of the stools on the far side, wrapped her long fingers around the mug and raised it to her lips. They didn’t speak, they never did; they knew what this was, what it could be, what it almost was. What weight could words have in the face of that?

He drank his own coffee, wandered from the kitchen to the windows, looked down on the early morning of the city.

“When will you leave?” he asked, tapping a knuckle against the glass. 

“Sometime this week. I won’t know until…”

He nodded. She couldn’t tell him if she did. 

“Will I see you again?” 

Silence. Unkeepable promises. 

Rubbing a hand over his mouth, he said, “I’m sorry Baelish didn’t show.”

“It was a long shot. This was always the stronger lead. And they’re pulling resources. If I don’t…” Brienne sighed. 

More silence.

“I have something for you,” he said, eventually, turning to face her. She looked so at ease, her feet wrapped around the legs of the high stool, his shirt still mostly unbuttoned; he had thought, once, that she was unbendable steel in a suit, hard-headed and soft-hearted, but the truth was that she was just Brienne—infuriating and determined and a rare good cop in a sea of corruption. 

“I can’t—”

“It’s fine. I know what you can bring. Nobody’s going to connect it to Brienne Tarth. Let me just…” 

He moved from the window, setting the mug on the island (she’d been there only a few hours before, perched on the edge, silk skirt and soft thighs and wet heat, none of this stilted silence, no gaping hole before she’d ever left), and headed towards his bedroom to retrieve the two small boxes. Neither was larger than his palm. He returned to the kitchen, where Brienne was washing both mugs.

“This one first,” he said, placing the smaller box on the island.

“First?” she asked, turning from the sink and raising an eyebrow.

“Just…” He waved his hand as she came nearer, unable to suppress his grimace when she unwrapped the box to reveal a cheap necklace inside.

“It’s—”

“It’s fucking hideous, is what it is,” Jaime said, watching her pull out the silver chain, wrap it around her fingers. “23.99 from Stokeworth’s. There was a _catalogue_.”

Brienne laughed, and lifted it up for closer examination. It was a seven-pointed star, the sort of generic staple design available throughout the seven kingdoms and gifted to people when you had little idea what else to get them, but the glass was blue instead of the usual rainbow and—

“Tarth,” she said. 

Jaime shrugged. “Don’t want you forgetting who you are, because I don’t fancy our chances if you become a master criminal.”

Brienne placed the necklace back in the box with far more reverence than it deserved, and met his eyes with a soft smile. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he replied, placing the second box down. “There’s another one.” 

She opened it, and her face fell.

“Nobody can trace it,” Jaime said hurriedly, “or connect it back to you, but if you need… help, or—” 

She replaced the lid, shoved it back across the island. “Jaime, I can’t. You know that.”

“What I _know_ is that they send people in without enough cover,” he snapped, already ready for the argument. Pushed the box towards her. “I know they’re— damnit, Brienne, I know what it’s like to have no backup. Take it, never use it, I don’t care. But _take_ it.” 

“No.”

“You’re so fucking stubborn, you know that?”

Her nostrils flared. “Says _you_! You’re deliberately flaunting department guidelines—no, it’s worse, you’re expecting _me_ to flaunt the guidelines to appease your nerves. I can handle a—”

“I know you can handle it, you stubborn goat,” he snarled back, crossing his arms over his chest. “And I want justice for Sansa Stark as much as you do, _so let me help_.”

“This isn’t helping,” she shouted, leaning on the island to loom towards him, “it’s _distracting_.” 

Oh.

She fell back on her heels, ran a hand through her short hair. 

“I can’t—I need to do my job, Jaime. _Me_. Not…” she waved a hand between them. “I can’t take the phone.”

“Okay.”

She looked doubtful. “Okay?”

“No, you’re right. You need to do what keeps your head in the game. But remember that I—”

“Don’t.” She shook her head. “No promises. No _I’ll come if you need me_. No… None of this. I need to— I need to get going.” She looked down, tugged at the hem of her—his—shirt.

“Keep it,” he said brusquely. “I’m going to have a shower. If you’re gone before I’m done...” _Stay_ , he wanted to say. _Don’t leave it like this_. But he could not imagine having to say goodbye either. He rounded the island, put a hand at her waist, brushed a kiss against the corner of her mouth. “When you get home…”

Her eyes fluttered shut. “No promises, Jaime,” she repeated.

“I’ll be here,” he finished, and smirked at her irritated glare. “Not a promise, just a fact.”

He let her go, reluctantly, and headed towards the shower in his en suite. He stayed for a long time under the hot spray, allowed it to ease the tension in his shoulders, wash the outside world away.

When he came out, towel hung low on his hips, he knew without looking that the apartment was empty, the silence undeniable. His shirt was folded in the centre of his neatly made bed, and on the kitchen island, both packages were gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then they [next meet in a Riverlands bar two years later](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23393641?view_full_work=true).


End file.
